T
by el bastardo
Summary: Sherlock is poisoned with normal human emotions and John Watson, doctor and soldier, must deal with the consulting detective and find the cure before London falls apart.  Warnings for possible male/male content.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: Watched Sherlock, swooned, accidentally wrote fic. Also, if you've gotten about 4 different versions of this chapter, I do apologize. Rule #1: do not update before saving document.

Warnings: Man kiss. Mmmmm...

Disclaimer: All for fun! Enjoy!

T

Chapter One

"I've told you before, I'm not gay."

Mrs Hudson's pleasantly blank look was not encouraging.

Watson sighed and gave up. "Thank-you very much, Mrs Hudson, you're very kind." He held out his arms and accepted the box she had carried up from her own flat.

The woman smiled happily. "I'm sure you'll enjoy them, John. Just don't forget to share them with Sherlock!" She sang Sherlock's name in a tremorous soprano and Watson winced. Was a low rent really worth the trouble?

When Mrs Hudson had departed, Watson dragged the box into the kitchen, elbowed some of Sherlock's chemical apparatus out of the way and set it on the table. Then, heart sinking, he unfolded the top.

Within, as Mrs Hudson had explained with such glee, was a delicate blue china tea set, complete with pot, cups, plates, milk jug and sugar bowl. Once, long ago, she had intended on giving it to a daughter, but she and Mr Hudson had no children. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, apparently, were the next best thing.

Watson held up the pot, glanced from the tiny blue Chinese figures to the chaos of Sherlock's flat, and shrugged. It looked no stranger than anything else in the clutter.

When Sherlock returned sometime later, his black coat flaring around his knees, he halted in the doorway when he saw Watson reclining on the couch, a cup of tea in one hand and a book of Germanic tank warfare in the other. His pale eyes flicked about as they were accustomed, carefully observing and evaluating every change.

"You got a new tea set," the consulting detective said. "Or, rather, Mrs Hudson gave you a new tea set."

"Hello to you, too," Watson replied without looking up. "The pot's on the table, help yourself."

"No time for tea, John, there's work to be done. We're going out." Sherlock strode to his mantle and snatched up a piece of colourful paper, some kind of advertising. "Lestrange called. Two children went missing this past week and the hardware shop at _ and _ is of great interest to me."

After several months living with the functional sociopath, Watson could assume that he would eventually learn how the two things were related, whether he wanted to or not. So he didn't ask. Instead, the doctor nodded toward the kitchen. "It's still hot, Sherlock. Have a cup while I get my coat."

"If I must," sighed the taller man, as though Watson had convinced him to do something terrible, like trim his hair or sleep a solid three hours.

After a moment or two, as Watson knotted his boots on, Sherlock made a noise of thoughtful surprise and said, "Interesting. Much more pleasant that I expected."

"I suppose that's the benefit of drinking tea from china instead of styrofoam," Watson replied, referring to the frequency with which the two men patronized side-street restaurants and drank one pound tea.

"Closed-cell extruded polystyrene foam, actually," Sherlock corrected. "But I believe you have the gist of it." He set his cup down and nodded toward the door. "Shall we?"

At five o'clock in the morning, after a frantic night of cab rides, fist fights and a game of revolver versus electric drill, Watson dragged himself and his flatmate back up the stairs to their flat. Sherlock had, through some fractured decision-making protocol, decided that flushing out the kidnapper into the waiting arms of the police wasn't good enough. Instead, he had cornered the man and convinced him to confess, shortly after which the man committed suicide on a table saw and tried to take Sherlock with him. The consulting detective had reacted quickly and escaped death; however, he did not escape the two broken toes and strained ankle that came from kicking over a shelving unit full of saw blades onto the perpetrator.

"A bullet would have done just as well, John," Sherlock said flatly as Watson carefully pulled the man's boot and sock off. Most of the foot was swollen and tinged purple.

"Not if you have to fill out the paper work afterward," Watson said and unrolled a length of gauze.

Sherlock sniffed derisively, obviously never having had to deal with the pettiness of bureaucracy. Mycroft probably kept most real world matters away from his brother, or vice versa.

A knock came on the door. Watson ignored it, more interested in setting his colleague's toes properly without causing any unnecessary pain, though he certainly had the urge to tweak Sherlock's injury; if only to get a response.

"Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said quietly. "Still in her rabbit slippers. No doubt she's experiencing nightmares about her late husband again."

"No doubt," Watson repeated, rolling his eyes.

"No need for your shrewishness," Sherlock chided. "She often comes to me when she can't sleep, knowing that I'm awake."

"And she talks to you?" Watson asked.

"She brings me scones," Sherlock said. Then, in a louder voice, "Come in, Mrs Hudson."

When the door opened, Watson smelled the sweet scent of fresh baking. His stomach grumbled.

Mrs Hudson's soft face appeared, her eyes dark and her hair under a pink cap. "Still awake, dear?" she said. Then, "Oh! I didn't mean to interrupt!"

Watson blinked in confusion, then jerked away from Sherlock's naked foot, suddenly aware of what their current position could indicate to a good British woman.

"Not at all, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said calmly. "John is a doctor, remember. I injured my foot during our latest adventure."

Watson would have sworn he saw the words "sexual adventure" go through Mrs Hudson's mind.

"Of course," she murmured. She moved into the flat and held up a small container covered in a tea towel. "I couldn't sleep, so I did some baking. Would you like some scones?"

"Lovely," Sherlock said. "Would you care for some tea? John?"

Watson swallowed another sigh and got up to start the water, but Mrs Hudson beat him to it. "Oh, let me, John. You attend to Sherlock." She beamed at him. "I'm so glad that you're taking care of him now."

"Attend to me," Sherlock said quietly when Watson knelt before him again, smirking slightly. The man only smiled when he was irritating the hell out of someone.

The doctor glared, but refrained from responding and encouraging Sherlock's poor sense of humour. "Mrs Hudson," he called over his shoulder. "Would you mind bringing me some ice?"

"Of course, dear."

Watson bound the broken toes to their healthy neighbours and then left Sherlock with a bundle of ice to hold against his ankle. "When the swelling goes down, I'll wrap it." He stood and stretched. "But, unlike you, I need to sleep."

"What about your blog?" Sherlock complained.

"What about it?" Watson yawned. "The fans can wait until the evening for the 'See-saw Adventure'."

"We'll try not to keep you up," Mrs Hudson said cheerfully as Watson passed her in the kitchen. "And I won't keep Sherlock long."

"You can keep him as long as you'd like," Watson muttered when she was out of hearing. He really needed to spend more nights at Sarah's.

Sarah, however, saw this differently a few days later, and told Watson that she was uninterested in pursuing their relationship.

They had only been seeing each other a few months, but Watson still took it pretty hard. Taking a bullet in the shoulder had been less shocking. At least nerves knew when to stop hurting; the heart did not.

"I just don't see this going anywhere serious," she said kindly over their curries. She reached out and put her small, competent fingers over his own square, scarred hand. "I feel like I will never be important enough in your life."

"What?" Watson uttered. "Do you want to get married?"

She laughed, but it wasn't cruel. "Oh, John, you really aren't the marrying type, are you?"

"Well, I-you don't think so?" His mind swam with recollections of the few relationships he had had in his life, from his alcoholic parents and brother, the other students in med school, the raucous soldiers in his units, to the present figures; a lovely coworker and a genius flatmate with the personality of sharp cheddar. Nowhere in there was a good example of a fulfilling long-term relationship, romantic or otherwise.

"I don't," she said gently. Her thumb rubbed small circles over his knuckles and she smiled sadly. "You're a great guy, though, John. I really like you as a friend, but-"

"You can stop there." Watson pulled away. "I don't need any kind of speech. We'll just leave it at that." He dug into his coat for his wallet and dumped some bills on the table; he didn't bother to check the amount. "It was nice knowing you."

"John, you don't need to do this," she insisted, her dark eyes large with entreaty. "I'm telling you the truth, we can still be friends."

Watson shook his head. He couldn't even come up with something to say that wasn't a savage insult to her breeding, and she didn't really deserve that, no matter what his heart said. "Good-bye."

The evening air was cool and damp, scented with city life; petrol and grease. Watson turned up his collar, buried his hands in his pockets and started walking. He could have hailed a cab, but he could use the time to clear his head before returning to 221B Baker Street.

He was only halfway home when his phone buzzed with an incoming text. He pulled it out to check and found a message from Sarah. He fired back a reply in short order.

Sarah: I'm so sorry, John :( Can't we pls talk about this?

John: Good nite. Sleep well. Dr's orders.

She would smile at that and maybe leave him alone.

His phone buzzed again.

Sarah: Lol. I just want to make sure your ok. I care about you.

He stared at that message for a while, not sure how to take it. Women, he knew, were confusing and apparently confused creatures. How could they think that stabbing someone in the heart was the same thing as caring about them?

He opted for telling a lie.

John: I am ok. Just need to think.

She didn't pester him after that, so he assumed his reply was satisfactory to her incomprehensible woman's brain.

Then, only a few minutes later, his phone went off again. At this point, Watson was ready to throw the damned thing in a gutter. He ignored it.

It buzzed two more times before Watson finally pulled it out.

Sherlock: And we'll need twelve red chickens.

Watson re-read the message a few times before realizing that Sherlock must have been one of the two other messages.

Sherlock: Another kidnapping. See-saw wasn't working alone. Meet me at Lisle and Newport Place.

Sherlock: Bring an ounce of Yorkshire Gold Tea, loose leaf.

As usual, Sherlock's directions were cryptic and partially impossible to follow. Watson was beginning to suspect—or _deduce_, as Sherlock would say—he was the only person in London without some substantial cranial injury.

Watson very nearly put his phone away and continued walking, but the See-saw case had hit him hard. He couldn't stand by knowing that someone was hurting children. So he sent an acknowledgement to Sherlock and flagged down a cab.

When Watson found him, Sherlock was sitting in the Tokyo Diner, brooding over a bowl of congealed soba. From the looks of him, he was on the verge of a breakthrough.

"Where are the chickens?" Sherlock asked when Watson sat in front of him.

"On a farm somewhere, probably," Watson replied. He tossed a small paper bag next to Sherlock's bowl. "I found the tea, though."

"That'll have to do. Chickens would get Mr Pau to talk, but his favourite tea will help."

"Who is Mr Pau?"

"A deliveryman," was Sherlock's brief response. "Specifically, a deliveryman of human resources."

"You don't mean human resources like at the corporate level, do you?"

"Very apt, John. Shall we?"

As usual, when Sherlock strode from the restaurant, he did not pay and the waiter didn't stop him. Watson was again reminded that most of London owed the consulting detective a favour.

They went down a few doors to a small, mostly hidden souvenir shop. The paint on the blue door was peeling and the hinges were stiff when Watson pulled it open. They entered the cool, dusty interior and stood for a moment in the midst of packed shelves. The lighting came from fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling, covered in yellow and red fabric. The cheap, Chinese souvenirs were overwhelming and looked like they'd never been touched.

"Obviously a front," Watson observed.

"Are you so sure?" Sherlock picked up a small bronze Buddha, one of hundreds, and showed the price tag to Watson. "Buy this for me."

"I don't have any cash." Watson held out his wallet, empty from tossing his money at Sarah.

Sherlock glanced down, then up at Watson's face. "Your meal with Sarah cost over a hundred pounds?" he asked.

"That's how much was in there?" Watson asked sadly and sighed.

"Indeed. You either wanted to impress her or she broke up with you." Those pale eyes continued their dance and the tall man concluded, "Judging by your shoes, you and Sarah are no longer an item."

"My shoes?" Watson looked down and didn't notice anything unusual.

"The splatter of mud on your shoes and cuffs indicates that you were walking for some time, with little care for what you stepped in. For once, you were lost in thought."

"I could have asked her to marry me."

"Doubtful," Sherlock said. "You're not the marrying type."

"What? I'm not?" Why did everyone but him know this?

"Obviously." Serlock's lips twitched in a small smile, indicating that he knew very well how much this perturbed his colleague. "Here's some money."

Watson sighed, took the cash and the statuette, and edged his way to the counter at the back of the store. Sherlock must want to observe the interaction rather than be a part of it.

When Watson pressed the bell beside the register, he had to wait at least a full minute before a short, rotund Chinese man waddled out through a beaded curtain. He stopped when he saw Watson, a brief expression of surprise on his face. Then he came close.

"You want gift?" he asked in a heavy accent.

"Uh, yes. Yes, please." Watson held up the Buddha.

"Two pound fifty."

While the man made change, Sherlock slipped out of the darkness and appeared behind Watson's shoulder. "You must do a quick business, Mr Pau," said the detective.

Mr Pau jumped and nearly dropped the coins he was counting. Now that Sherlock had pointed it out, Watson noticed how full the register was.

"You a thief?" asked the shopkeeper.

"Quite the opposite." Sherlock smiled his fake smile, so handsome and effective for wooing the most stubborn witness or criminal, and dropped the bag of tea on the counter. "I bring you a gift. Would you care for a cup of tea?"

Mr Pau gave Watson his change and then picked up the tea, sniffed it cautiously, and lifted his eyebrows at Sherlock. "Yorkshire Gold," he said. "Chinese hate this."

"Except you."

The shopkeeper closed it and tucked it away. "What do you want?" he asked, suddenly dropping the accent.

"Information about some of the 'gifts' you have delivered over the past few weeks."

Mr Pau stared at them for a moment. Then he turned and dashed back through the beaded doorway.

"Chickens would have worked better," Sherlock said.

Watson rolled his eyes, pulled out his gun and took off after Mr Pau.

The beaded door led into a back room crowded with cardboard boxes. A metal door said "EXIT" and a narrow set of wooden stairs slanted upward on the left side of the room. Watson paused, listened, and heard a quiet thudding from the second story. He tore up the worn steps. There was a locked door at the top, but the frame was weak enough that it gave way after only two solid blows from his shoulder. Behind it was a cramped apartment smelling strongly of incense and dumplings. Watson kept his back to the walls and his gun ready as he searched the few small rooms and found nothing but garbage and dirty laundry. From the looks of it, Mr Pau barely lived here.

After some searching, Watson found Mr Pau's route; the fire escape ran along the building under the bedroom window. From here, he was able to scramble onto the roof of a neighbouring shop and figure out the path that a portly Chinese man could follow. He went over another building, up another fire escape, and through an abandoned apartment. On the other side, he found a warren of rooms and courtyards. He also found a well-armed guardian.

Watson heard the shot and reflex dropped him to the floor behind the wall. He was in a long hall with doors on one side and barred windows on the other. The only light came from the courtyard, dim and grey. Watson crouched on one end of the hall and his sudden adversary guarded the other.

"Surrender!" Watson called. "We have you surrounded. The police are on the way."

A string of Chinese words were his reply; most likely swearing.

"Not Mr Pau, then," Watson murmured. He hoped that Sherlock was somewhere, doing something useful.

The soldier peered around the corner again, looked for anything useful, and then ducked back when the other shooter fired and gouged plaster out of the walls.

After a few deep breaths, Watson steadied his hands, envisioned his target, leaned around and fired.

The window beside the other shooter exploded, sending glass everywhere. Watson heard a pained cry, steeled himself and ran, hunched over, down the hall.

He found a Chinese teenager, clasping his face where glass had imbedded itself. When he saw Watson, he lifted his gun to fire.

Watson leapt forward, kicked the gun out of the kid's hand and levelled his own at the bloody face. He wasn't about to fire, but the kid wouldn't know that.

"Mr Pau," Watson said slowly.

The teen let loose a string of syllables that probably translated into "Screw you."

Watson scowled. He had to move on, but he wasn't about to leave the young bloke to come after him again. So he backed away and indicated with the nozzle of his gun for the kid to get to his feet and move toward the doors. With all the sullenness of a boy his age, the shooter did as he was directed. Then, when the kid's head was turned, Watson pistol-whipped him at the base of the skull and caught him one-armed on the way down. His shoulder twinged, but he kept the lad from hitting the ground too badly. He even checked him over briefly and found that, though the glass had cut him, he was no nearer to bleeding to death than Watson himself.

He collected the kid's gun and was about to leave when he heard a soft voice nearby. Watson instantly stilled and listened carefully. The sound did not repeat itself, but Watson thought he knew where it had come from.

The doctor went to the first door. It was locked. He searched the boy's clothing and found a key ring. After a few tries, he got the door open. In the dim light from behind him, four wide pairs of eyes looked up at him from four dirty, malnourished faces.

"Well then," Watson said. "Human resources has been busy."

He sent a long, explanatory text message to Lestrange, explaining what he had found, and then continued on. No doubt, after this long, he would find Sherlock locked in some clever combat with one of the ring leaders of this human trafficking plot.

Contrary to Watson's belief, the consulting detective was not locked in combat. Sherlock was drinking tea with Mr Pau in another, far nicer and well-furnished apartment, being served by a painted Chinese girl. The two men sat on either side of a round table, talking over their small cups.

Watson nudged the door open with his foot and peered in. Mr Pau's back was to him, his shirt damp from sweat. Across from him, Sherlock sat with all composure and dignity, looking for all the world like he owned that small room. Watson had no clue how the man had made it here before him, or even how he had gotten in.

The Chinese girl, at some unspoken command, gracefully stood from where she knelt by the table and came toward the door. When she saw Watson, his gun exposed, she gasped.

"It's all right," Sherlock said. "He's with me. A colleague." He smirked at Watson. "You took the long way in, I suppose?"

"Something like that," Watson replied. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

"Certainly not. Bring him some tea, please."

Watson took one of the other two chairs and seated himself between Sherlock and Mr Pau. Mr Pau looked ragged from running and somewhat distressed. Sherlock had doubtless cornered him through wits alone. Watson wondered how much information Sherlock had already gotten.

"Tell me who the messenger was." Sherlock sipped delicately.

"I don't know, he only gave first name."

"Which was?"

"Leo."

Sherlock leaned back and pulled his phone out. His thumbs were a blur over the keys as he searched the name.

While Sherlock was occupied, Watson stepped in to continue the questioning. "What did he look like?"

"Blue hair, piercings, pimples... he was some punk."

"Age?"

"Young."

"But too old for you," Sherlock added. "Fifteen, maybe?"

Watson regarded Mr Pau and felt queasy.

"Twenty," Mr Pau replied sourly.

The Chinese girl brought Watson a cup of tea, then. He took it and sniffed the familiar, rich dark scent. Before he drank, he looked to Sherlock, hoping that the consulting detective would make some objection if Mr Pau was trying to poison them. Sherlock didn't seem to notice, so Watson sipped.

"Anything else you'd like to tell us about him?" Watson asked.

"No." Mr Pau folded his thick arms. "I'm going to ask you to leave now, gentlemen."

"How long until they get here, John?" Sherlock asked, still focused on his phone.

John checked his own. There was a text from Lestrange. "About five more minutes," he reported.

"You should cooperate with us before the police get involved," Sherlock said. "Was Leo taller than you? What was his accent? Did he drink or eat anything here?"

Mr Pau folded his arms. "I have nothing more to say to you. You come in here, dupe an old man, threaten him-"

"Yes, I'm sure the authorities of the child slave labour ring will have much to say to us," Watson said.

"We can hope," Sherlock commented. "I want some words with that authority."

Mr Pau steamed. Watson kept a hand on his gun, recognizing the looks of a desperate man.

"Two more minutes, I believe." Sherlock finally tucked his phone away, drank and regarded Mr Pau. In the silence, they could hear the thin wail of sirens.

The Chinese girl entered with her tray of tea. When she stooped to set it down, Mr Pau flipped the tray over on his two guests. As Watson leapt to his feet, hastily plucking hot denim away from his crotch, Mr Pau jumped to his feet and scrambled out the door. Hissing and swearing, Watson tried to follow, until Sherlock held him back.

"He won't get far," said the consulting detective. "From the sounds of it, Lestrange brought about seven cars."

"Ah-ee..." Watson stood awkwardly, waiting for the water to cool.

"Besides, we got what we needed."

"Lap tea?" Watson asked bitterly.

"Attention."

Lestrange wasn't satisfied until Watson had filled out about seven reports, explaining why he fired his gun, what he had done, how he had found the children, and several other aspects of the night. Sherlock, Watson noticed, didn't have to fill out anything.

It was midnight by the time they caught a cab and headed back to Baker Street.

Watson started, "So, we find Leo-"

"And he'll lead us to our friend James," Sherlock finished. "Though I doubt it will be that simple."

"It so rarely is." Watson rubbed the back of his neck; sometime during the evening's activities, he had strained something.

"There are some possibilities about who this messenger is, but we'll start the search in the morning when my informants are out for the day."

_The homeless_, Watson filled in mentally.

Sherlock stared out the window for the remainder of the cab ride. Watson watched him curiously, wondering if the blur of lights outside was what the inside of the detective's mind was like-the impossibly fast movement of concepts and assumptions, so quick that they ran into each other and became a constant stream of knowledge.

_That's good_, Watson thought. _Perfect for the _blog. He pulled out his notebook to jot it down.

When they arrived at the flat, a package was waiting for them from Mrs Hudson. 'A new tea for the new set,' said the note.

"I'm a little tired of tea," Watson said. "The Americans always drank coffee. I could use a bit of that."

Sherlock snorted. "That crude stimulant seems just up your alley."

"Says the man who wears underthings made of nicotine patches."

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. "My underwear is of interest to you."

"Hardly." Watson glared balefully. "I'm for bed. I have some sulking to catch up on."

"Ah, yes." Sherlock set the water to boil. "Sarah."

Watson didn't bother to reply. Instead, he stomped to his room upstairs.

Sometime later, Watson was rudely woken by someone roughly shaking his shoulders. _How impolite_, was his first thought, followed by the ice cold realization that some emergency was afoot.

He lurched up, dislodging Sherlock, whose tall figure had hunched over Watson's prone form. The consulting detective, in the slim light beyond Watson's door, wore a panicked expression.

"The tea," he muttered rapidly, "it has to be. Has to be. Some trick."

"What? What is it?" Watson edged away from his frantic flatmate and scrubbed his tired face.

"There was something _in_ it, John," Sherlock hissed. He buried his hands in his dark curls and stared desperately at his colleague. "It broke my brain. It's a-a virus. It's taking over, I can hardly _think_any more!"

"Like a computer virus?" Watson asked worriedly. Had Sherlock been poisoned with something? He ran through all the poisons he knew, trying to find symptoms of "brain virus" and came up blank. "We should take you to a hospital, a walk-in."

"No, no, no, no, no!" Sherlock shook his head violently. "I have the equipment, I can find the composition, but I can't, can't focus!"

"Uh, but what about you? If it's a poison-"

"It's not a poison!" Sherlock stared at Watson, eyes wide and white, lips parted and breathing heavily. Watson observed signs of exertion, perhaps a respiratory or cardiovascular issue.

"Then you should sleep. Take a sedative? Take off the nicotine patches?" Watson pinched Sherlock's forearm and the plastic layer under the sleeve.

"Yes!" Sherlock leaned back on his knees and heels and pulled his shirt off over his head.

Watson winced and scrambled to the other side of his bed, away from his ghostly pale flatmate. "Hey, do that somewhere else!"

"Help me, John." Sherlock thrust out his long arms. "You're a doctor. You're my friend."

"Ugh. F-fine." Watson gingerly peeled off the patches. When the taller man suddenly straightened and tightened his extended arms around Watson's shoulders, the soldier realized too late that Sherlock's symptoms weren't the result of a cardiovascular reaction. "What are you doing?"

"I don't know, I can't help myself!" Sherlock clung tightly, his skin hot against Watson's. "I can't think of anything else. My brain is broken!"

Watson tried to throw the other man off, but Sherlock had a wiry, insistent strength. The consulting detective just about crushed Watson's arms to his sides and buried his long face in the doctor's neck. "Sherlock?" he said worriedly. "What are you doing?" The question came out with a squeak when he felt Sherlock's lips move against the skin of his neck.

"I just, I need something from you. You have to help me."

Someone, somewhere would have loved to see this or, alternately, thought that this type of tomfoolery was the norm. Watson, on the other hand, wanted nothing less.

"I'll get you a lady of the night then, shall I? Sherlock? Come on, mate."

"No, no, I just want you."

"And I want you to go back to your own bed and forget this ever happened, yes?"

Watson's protests ceased, unable to slip past the insistent barrier of Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock's lips were warm, dry and nearly violent. Watson wondered, somewhere in the back of his mind, if Sherlock had ever actually kissed someone before, man or woman, or if he was basing this romantic interlude on nothing more than hearsay and rumours. Then he reacted, shoving Sherlock away from him.

The consulting detective slumped backward and covered his face. "Sorry, sorry, John," he said, voice muffled. "I didn't mean to do that. There must be some compound that, that afflicts a human with urges, tendencies, needs for warmth, for closeness."

"I believe that affliction is called 'normal'," Watson said slowly. He moved away, groping for the shirt he'd discarded earlier. Thank God he stopped sleeping in the buff when he joined the military.

"It's not normal for me," Sherlock complained into the arms folded on his knees. "You have to make it stop."


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Hi! Many thanks for the kind reviews. I apologize for the shortness of this part; I have to admit, the length of the first chapter was a bit unusual for me.

I adore Sherlock, but haven't had the opportunity to watch the new season. So several details are probably out of date, but we can say this is AU, yes?

Warnings: Too much narrative, overuse of the word "tea," not enough man kisses!

Disclaimer: I own nothing _

T

Chapter Two

Watson waited until morning to talk to Mrs Hudson, but it was difficult. Sherlock spent the rest of the night muttering, throwing stuff about and generally making a nuisance of himself. Granted, this wasn't exactly abnormal behaviour for the consulting detective, but the steamy expressions he threw Watson's way were highly disturbing. By the time seven o'clock rolled around, Watson just about bounded down the stairs to Mrs Hudson's door, desperate to get the situation sorted out before he knocked his flatmate senseless.

"Good morning, dear," Mrs Hudson said when she saw Watson on her doorstep. Her hair was in curlers and she held a cup of tea in one hand.

"Uh, something like that." Watson pointed at her cup and glanced up worriedly at her kind, elderly face. "Is that the same tea you left for us?"

"This? Oh, no, this is my morning brew. No, I told the young lady at the tea store that you two are always up and running about, that you could use something for those late nights. Something for my energetic boys. So she said to try that blend."

"Which blend?" The little paper bag had nothing but the shop name and a product number on in.

"I don't know, dragon-something. Was there a problem?"

Watson couldn't imagine how to start a more awkward conversation.

"Not at all. Thank you, Mrs H."

"You like it, then?"

"Yes. It's, uh, invigorating." He offered his most winning smile and fled back to his own flat.

He found Sherlock curled into a ball in the corner of the couch, sound asleep. Watson halted in the doorway, deeply troubled. If Sherlock ever slept, it was in the time he spent blinking between deductions and insults. It was a small favour for Watson, though, as unusual as it was. He hurriedly scribbled a note and departed.

The tea shop, aptly named The Tea Shoppe, wasn't far, maybe a brisk twenty-minute walk. Watson arrived before it opened and cooled his heels on the sidewalk before a young woman appeared behind the glass door and turned on the neon "open" sign. As soon as she unlocked the door, he pulled it open.

"Uh, hello," greeted the shopkeeper, eyeing him warily, apparently unaccustomed to shadow-eyed, middle-aged men bursting into the shop the moment it opened. She didn't look great herself; at a glance, Watson thought she had been out as late as himself.

"What's in this tea?" he demanded, holding up the bag left by Mrs Hudson.

"W-what?"

"The tea, miss, if you please." He shook it for emphasis.

She flinched away and winced. Watson imagined she had something of a headache. "Well, uh, that item number, I'll have to go and look it up."

"It's dragon-something. I think." Watson nodded encouragingly.

"Right." She went behind the long counter, pulled out a large book and set to work.

Watson occupied himself with wandering about the shop and idly touching the bits of tea paraphernalia. When he found a strainer that would match his new set, he forcibly restrained his hands in his jacket pockets. Instead, he subtly watched the store clerk. Her blonde head was bowed over her book, so he had the opportunity to study her carefully. She was cute, despite the circles under eyes and ashen complexion. If she were about ten years older, he would sidle over there and make small talk, maybe cast his line in to see if she was biting.

_Not like you were just broken up with_, he thought with sudden bitterness. Did he really want to dive into that game of hearts again?

She looked up and it was too late for him to look away. She lifted an eyebrow. He smiled.

"It's not our product," she said grimly.

"What?" He hurried over. "But its got your shop name on the bag."

"Yes, I can see that, but it ain't ours." She opened it and sniffed the contents deeply. Her cute face wrinkled in an expression of distaste. "I don't recognize the smell. It's so... sweet."

"How can it not be your blend if it's in your bag?" Watson had trouble wrapping his mind around that concept, possibly due to the early hour and general lack of sleep.

"I don't know," she protested. "I just work here. Maybe someone sneaked it in."

"Why would someone..." Watson trailed off as he thought. He remembered Sherlock's distress, distraction and eventual sleep. The man had been drugged and effectively incapacitated. If someone wanted to, say, commit a crime that would baffle the Yard, getting Sherlock out of the way first was an intelligent first step. And if the the effects were permenant...

He stared at the shop girl, shocked and horrified. She stared back, expression baffled.

"Who was working here yesterday?" he asked.

"Uh, my manager, I guess, and someone else."

"Who?"

She frowned. "I can't tell you that." Then she paused and gasped, putting a hand to her mouth. "Are you a _stalker_?"

"What?" He shook his head rapidly. "No! My flatmate got sick on the tea in that bag and I need to know who gave it to him!"

"Wouldn't he know who sold it to him?"

Watson carefully resisted the urge to throttle the girl. Barely. "When will your manager be in?"

"Well, today's her day off, so tomorrow, I guess. Are you sure you're not a stalker?"

"Yes." He snatched the bag off of the counter. "Good day." Stiff-legged, he stalked from the little shop and it's wall of teas and tiny, useless tea accessories.

_I'm never going to drink another cup of tea in my life_, he thought as he strode toward home.

Watson entered his flat in trepidation, worried about what he might find. His fears were unfounded, though—Sherlock was still asleep, bundled in his coat, only one long arm flung out, suspended in air off the edge of a yellow cushion. Though the sleeping was concering, Watson appreciated not having to deal with his flatmate while he tried to think.

He spent some time on his laptop, searching for any drugs, either natural or manufactured, that could have effected Sherlock in such a way. Maybe something used to treat sociopathy or disassociation, both of which seemed to promenade hand-in-hand with the consulting detective's genius and allow him to function like some living computer. Then, if someone were to mix in chemicals that enhanced physical reactions—the thought of Sherlock in any state of arousal made Watson shudder and quickly move on—and increased energy levels, they would turn the consulting detective into a jittery, frightened mess and just might set him on his very own colleague.

They wouldn't know anything for certain until the contents were analyzed, but Watson was able to put together a list of possible ingredients, together with possible treatments. Unfortunately, most of them could really only be waited out.

Watson's pants vibrated, nearly sending him out of his chair. He fumbled the phone out and hurriedly opened it. There was a text from Detective Inspector Lestrange.

L: Is Holmes alive? Been texting and calling all morning.

_Of course_, Watson thought morosely, a flutter of panic starting in his stomach. He looked up at Sherlock, now snoring slightly, and swallowed heavily. He really did not want to wake the man.

There wasn't much for it, though. He could face the enemy, perform surgery in the field, and survive a bullet; he should be able to deal with this.

With all the stealth he could muster, Watson crept over and, holding his breath, wormed his hand into the warm middle of the ball Sherlock's body created. Sherlock's phone was where it should be, in the pocket of the house coat Watson had encouraged him to don only a few hours earlier. By some miracle, Sherlock didn't wake. Watson wasn't sure if this was a good thing or if he should be even more concerned.

When he accessed Sherlock's phone, he blinked in surprise at the two dozen texts and missed calls. Most were from Lestrange, outlining a new case.

One was from an unknown number.

Anonymous: Enjoy yourself, darling.

The innuendo and timing made that one pretty obvious. Watson's panicky feeling roiled its way to anger and then hatred. If he ever got the chance again, he would break Moriarty's thin neck with his bare hands. Bad enough the man was some kind of super-criminal, but Sherlock actually _respected_ him-

"Ugh." As though responding to his thoughts, Sherlock himself shifted, snorted and made a noise of disgust. The arm withdrew into the dark coat and the pale, unfocused eyes opened. "Sleep," he muttered, his voice like gravel. "I hate sleeping. A waste... waste of time. And such godawful dreams..." He stretched out, sending his feet past the arm of the couch. He blinked at Watson, who carefully slid himself backwards and out of reach. "John? You sleep like any other common man." Sherlock's tone made it seem like Watson's commonness was some kind of cross he had to bear. "How can you stand it?"

This bit of snappishness was promising. Watson tried not to smile. "I see you're as good as new," he said. "Welcome back, you arrogant bastard."

"Welcome back," Sherlock repeated thoughtfully. He sat up slowly, swinging his legs down in front of him, then held his head, long white hands pushing back into his wild hair. "I don't... I don't know how 'back' I am."

"What do you mean?" Watson asked warily.

"I feel very strange."

"Do you?" He coughed. "Do you need, ah, something? Someone?"

The consulting detective answered that with a glare between his fingers.

"Well, uh, all right. Can you look at your texts, then? Lestrange has a new case for you."

"Murder?" Sherlock immediately perked up.

"No. This is a bit more domestic than murder." Watson handed over the phone. "Disappearance, coma, cultists and a parrot."

The other man flashed a grin. "That's almost as good as murder."

Watson wasn't sure whether to feel grateful or exasperated at Sherlock's return to normal. So he rolled his eyes, but twitched a smirk of his own and said, playfully, "Time for another adventure."

There was no warning for poor Watson before Sherlock's white arm lashed out and hooked around the soldier's neck, dragging him in. "Yes," he purred. "An adventure."

Watson squeezed his eyes shut, desperately thrust out his hands and thought, _Damn you, Moriarty!_


End file.
